


Nightmare Run

by TheLastWinchesterStanding



Series: The Faulting Return of Oliver Queen [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Running Away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 16:37:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17429549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLastWinchesterStanding/pseuds/TheLastWinchesterStanding
Summary: Oliver was well beyond dramatics such as screaming in his sleep. But that didn’t stop him from waking up covered in a cold sweat with a scream caught in his throat, his heart pounding and lungs heaving. It didn’t stop him from rising in the early hours of the morning to run laps around the property. It certainly didn’t stop him from running until his legs and eyes burnt with the same intensity. Until he could trick himself into believing that when he collapsed, his chest heaving and breathing almost too hard to get any oxygen, that it was due only to physical exhaustion.





	Nightmare Run

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation on my fic 'Oliver Queen is...'  
> It's a series based on Oliver's season 1 return to civilisation and the trials that pretains.  
> There will probably be more but won't be updated with any kind of frequency sadly. I'll be working on and updating this as the muse strikes!

Oliver Queen had been home a total of three weeks.

Already he’d; been officially brought back from the dead, been kidnapped, set up a base of operations and crossed two names off his father’s list. It was mostly the last part that he was proud of.

Oliver clung to the feeling of completion he got from knowing he’d already made tangible steps forward in completing his father’s last request. He hid behind that feeling and used it to glue himself together even when he felt like every other aspect of his life was unravelling at the seams.

On the island, during those five years of hell, Oliver had spent many nights lying awake fantasizing about reuniting with his family and friends. He thought of all the things he’d want to tell them. All of the experiences he’d want to share, and the ones he would _never_ mention. Sometimes he would fantasize about what words they might have spoken to him in response. What would they have said in the face of the horrors Oliver had endured over the past five years? Other times, he’d simply dream of re-joining them and having his life resume itself exactly where he’d left off. In those fantasies, Oliver was whole and unburdened by the horrors of his past.

But life rarely followed the script thought up by a homesick castaway. It was very rarely what one might hope for.

Instead of telling them all the things he’d once been so desperate to say, Oliver found himself lying and avoiding their questions. Instead of seamlessly sliding back into his life and picking up his old relationships where he left off, Oliver found himself drowning. Everything that had once been as easy as breathing was now a constant struggle.

Interacting with his sister.

Eating dinner with his family.

Talking to his friends.

Even sleeping soundly through the night on his own bed was an unattainable task. How many times had Oliver fantasized about sinking into the soft comfort of his King sized bed, surrounded by fluffy blankets and pillows? And now, when he actually _could_ , Oliver could find no comfort in it. After years of sleeping on hard surfaces, Oliver found he couldn’t relax on the plush surface. Ever the problem solver, Oliver decided that if he couldn’t sleep on the bed then he’d sleep on the floor – although he had to do it with a certain amount of stealth to not upset his family. But of course that wasn’t enough. Because the horrors that had haunted him on the island had managed to follow him back to Starling.

Oliver was well beyond dramatics such as screaming in his sleep. But that didn’t stop him from waking up covered in a cold sweat with a scream caught in his throat, his heart pounding and lungs heaving. It didn’t stop him from rising in the early hours of the morning to run laps around the property. It certainly didn’t stop him from running until his legs and eyes burnt with the same intensity. Until he could trick himself into believing that when he collapsed, his chest heaving and breathing almost too hard to get any oxygen, that it was due only to physical exhaustion.

It was on such a night when the stars were shining through the smog of the city to light up the night sky, and unspeakable horrors had driven him from his room, that Oliver Queen was once again running laps around the family property. The warm breathes billowing out in front of him were coming more erratic with each lap. His heart, that had already been set to burst even before he’d made his way from his bedroom, was beating furiously in his chest. The blood in his ears was roaring almost loud enough to drown out the screaming that had followed him from his dreams into his waking moments. The smell of dirt and blood blocked out any other and forced Oliver to run faster in a futile attempt to escape it once and for all.

He was unaware of any audience when he came skidding around the side of the house at full pelt. He didn’t hear his name called over the rushing in his head, nor did his wide eyes see the concerned face of his sister as he sped past her.

Three more laps around the large Queen estate saw Oliver collapsing by the back door. He fell onto his hands and knees, head hung low as he gasped for breath. Ever the stubborn man, Oliver would choose to believe that the moisture he could feel slipping down his face was nothing more than sweat. By then, time held little meaning to the returned castaway, and so he could not estimate how long he had been in that position before he was suddenly aware of another’s presence.

With his adrenaline spiked so high, there was little Oliver could do about his reaction. The moment he heard the tell-tale crack of a branch breaking, Oliver was rolling forward to come up in a defensive crouch. His teeth were bared, eyes wide and feral as he let a low growl escape from low in his still heaving chest. He was mere seconds from launching himself forward at his attacker when his mind finally recognised his sister’s frightened features, masked by the gloom of night.

“Ollie?” Thea called unsurely.

It was only then that Oliver realised he was still growling, still baring his teeth in a feral expression. It took him considerable effort to stop the sound and even more to try and calm himself back down enough to change his expression into something more human. For once, his teenage sister showed considerable tact as she remained still and unmoving the entire time Oliver fought his instincts down.

When finally he had himself back under some kind of control, Oliver let his head drop down until his chin was resting on his chest.

“Thea,” He croaked. Oliver brought his head up only to see Thea watching him, looking unsure and frightened. “It’s alright. I’m-” Oliver broke off roughly. He pulled himself to his feet on legs that felt like stilts. “I’m sorry.” He breathed once he was standing, even if he was swaying slightly.

“Are you okay?” Thea asked.

Oliver had long since gotten used to traveling only by the light of far too distant stars, and so had no problem seeing the twin tears racing their way down his sister’s too pale cheeks. He could see her lip trembling even as she worriedly twisted her no doubt shaking hands. Any other time and Oliver might have tried to comfort her. Comforting was a practise he had long since forgotten, but for his sister he would have tried.

But not tonight.

Not when he could still smell the musky scent of wet dirt and the sharp, copper smell of too fresh blood. Certainly not when he could still hear the screams of the wounded, the sobs of a now childless mother, and the awful certainty of a last rattled breath. There was no way he could hold his, still far too innocent, sister when his hands were awash with a red stain that would not, _could not_ , be removed.

Oliver’s throat impossibly tightened. He clenched tightly his trembling hands but could not stop them from shaking. Working his too dry throat, he eventually managed the very semblance of a comforting response. “I’m fine, Thea.” Oliver said, although it came out more a croak than anything else. “You should go inside.” He added when she continued to stand there, staring at him with too wide eyes that continued to fill with water to slip silently down her cheeks.

“What- what are you doing out here?” Thea asked. Her voice was almost as hoarse as Oliver’s own. It was choked with emotion that Oliver was in no way equipped to deal with. He could almost hear behind each spoken word the unspoken plea for her big brother to comfort her and make this right.

“Go inside, Speedy.” Oliver told her as firmly as he could. His legs were still burning, his lungs still heaving, and heart still pounding. None of which stopped Oliver from turning around and taking off again.

Thea crying out for him was lost somewhere within the maelstrom of other voices crying out – in indescribable pain, in bone deep sorrow, in burning rage.

Oliver would keep running until they were nothing more than a noiseless blur that followed him submissively into the blackness of unconsciousness.


End file.
